Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

He ran down to the lower floor and opened the can of petrol. He poured its contents systematically all over the cottage. It amazed him how far ten litres went. It soon began to smell like an old petrol station, and the can was empty.

Steal something! He must make it look like a burglary. Why hadn’t that occurred to him before? He hadn’t brought a bag or case to carry things in, but there must be a rucksack somewhere. Downstairs. There was sure to be one there; he’d seen some sports equipment. He raced back down.

She couldn’t make out what it was that tasted so peculiar. She moved her lips feebly. It must be blood. Probably her own. She wanted to go back to sleep. No, she had to open her eyes. Why? Her head was so damned painful. Better to go on sleeping. It smelt awful. Did blood smell like that? No, it’s petrol, she thought, with a half-smile at her own cleverness. Petrol. She made another attempt to open her eyes. She couldn’t. Perhaps she should try one more time. It might be easier if she rolled over. The effort was agonising, but she slewed herself round almost onto her stomach. There was something preventing her from turning fully. Something warm and soft. Cento. Her hand slowly stroked the dog’s body. She could feel it immediately: Cento was dead. She opened her eyes abruptly-the dog’s head was right up against her own. It was battered in. She tried desperately to rise. Through her bloodied eyelids she saw the figure of a man outside the window, with his face up close to the glass, cupping his hands round his eyes to be able to see more clearly.

What’s Peter Strup doing here? she managed to think, before falling back and crumpling over the corpse of the dog.

There wasn’t much of value in the cottage. A few ornaments and three silver candlesticks would have to do. The cutlery in the kitchen drawers was all steel. It was by no means certain that any loss would be discovered anyway; with luck, the whole house would burn to the ground. He laced up the grey rucksack he’d found, drew out a box of matches from his inside pocket, and went towards the verandah door.

That was when he saw Peter Strup.

The motorbike wasn’t very well suited to cross-country riding. She was also frozen solid, and realised that her coordination and strength were failing her. She stopped just a few metres along the forest track and dismounted, numb and aching. Håkon said not a word. It would be a waste of time even attempting to use the stand on the uneven ground, so she tried instead to lay the heavy machine carefully on its side. She had to drop it the last bit. The owner would be furious. She would have killed anybody herself in similar circumstances. They ran as best they could along the track-not exactly fast. Rounding a bend they came to an abrupt halt. They could see a frightening orange glow through the trees two hundred metres ahead, and above the bare trees yellow flames leaping into the sky.

In seconds they were running again-much faster now.

Jørgen Lavik hadn’t quite known what to do. But his uncertainty was short-lived. He’d thrown three matches, and all of them hit the mark. Flames leapt up instantaneously. He could see Peter Strup tugging at the verandah door, which fortunately was locked. He was unlikely to go away, and must have spotted Karen Borg where she lay, perfectly visible from outside. Had she moved? He was sure she’d been lying on her back before.

It wasn’t so certain that Peter Strup had recognised him. His cap was still pulled down low over his face, and his jacket had a high collar. But he couldn’t take the risk. The question was which would Strup regard as the more important, catching him, or saving Karen Borg? Probably the latter.

He made up his mind fast, picked up the monkey wrench, and ran across to the verandah door. Peter Strup was so surprised that he let go of the handle and lurched back a few paces. He must have caught his foot on a rock or a stump, since he swayed momentarily and then fell backwards. It was the chance Lavik needed. He opened the door, and the flames, which by now had taken hold of the walls and some of the furniture, blazed up fiercely.

He jumped on the man as he lay there, and raised the wrench to strike. But a split second before the blow would have smashed into his mouth, Strup twisted his head out of danger. The wrench hit the ground harmlessly and dropped from Lavik’s grasp.

Intent only on recovering his weapon, Lavik relaxed his guard. Strup wriggled over to one side of him and drove his knee into Lavik’s groin. Not hard, but enough to make him double up and forget the wrench. In a fury, he seized Strup’s legs just as he struggled to his feet. Down went Strup again, but with his arms free, and as he tried to work his legs loose by kicking out at his opponent, he got his hand inside his jacket. The kicking had an effect, and he felt his foot make contact with Lavik’s face. Suddenly his legs were released and he was able to stand up. As he staggered towards the edge of the wood twenty metres away he heard a yell and turned to look behind him in trepidation.

Police officers Sand and Wilhelmsen had reached the blazing house in time to see a figure in hunting gear wielding a massive wrench charging after a man in a suit. They came to a standstill, too winded to intervene.

“Stop!” shrieked Hanne in a futile attempt to prevent the catastrophe, but the huntsman ignored her.

He had only three metres to go when there was a bang. Not very loud, but short and sibilant and very, very distinct. The huntsman’s face assumed a weird expression, clearly defined in the strong light from the flames, as if he were amused by a game he didn’t really understand. His mouth, wide open as he ran, closed in a cautious smile, and he dropped the tool he’d been carrying, let his arms fall, looked down with interest at his own chest, and collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Peter Strup turned to the two police officers and threw down the gun, as an overt demonstration of his good faith.

“She’s still inside,” he shouted, pointing at the burning cottage.

Håkon didn’t pause to think. He tore across to the open verandah door, not even hearing the warning cries of the others as he plunged into the inferno. He ran so fast that he couldn’t stop until he reached the centre of the room, where the only thing as yet in flames was one end of a rag rug. But the heat was so intense that he could feel the skin on his face beginning to tighten.

She was as light as a feather; or perhaps he had suddenly acquired superhuman strength. It took no more than seconds to heave her up onto his shoulder, in a proper fireman’s lift. As he swung round to get back out the way he’d come in, there was an almighty crash. The noise was deafening, like a gigantic explosion. The picture windows had done their best to withstand the heat, but had eventually succumbed. The powerful draught from outside made the roaring flames almost unbearable, and his exit was cut off. At least in that direction. He turned round slowly, like a helicopter with Karen as a broken, lifeless rotor blade. The smoke and heat made it difficult to see anything. The stairs were ablaze.

But perhaps not as engulfed as they seemed? He didn’t have any choice. He drew a deep breath, which made him cough violently. The flames had caught his trousers now. With a howl of agony he leapt down the stairs, and could hear Karen’s head bumping against the wall with every stride.

The fire had been considerate enough to blow out the cellar door. With one final effort he was outside, and the fresh air gave him the extra strength to run another ten metres away from the building. Karen toppled to the ground, and all he had time to notice before he himself lost consciousness was that his trousers were still on fire.